Today the boys were wild. That’s because I’ve been mostly ignoring them for the past few days because I’ve had too much to do. When I woke up this morning, I still had too much to do, but now I also had wild boys to contend with. What to do with these wild boys? I considered enrolling them in school for the day, but then realized it was a Saturday, so that wouldn’t work.
So I made them help me clean the house, starting with the bathroom.
They love to clean the bathroom, and don’t we all? I gave one of them a tub of Clorox wipes and told him to have at it in the sink. And the other one got to play with the toilet bowl brush. They fight over who gets to clean the toilet. Of course they do! Playing with that brush is the best part of cleaning the bathroom. I’m just upset that they’re old enough to do it and I don’t ever get a turn. As long as you don’t get too ardent in your scrubbing and fling water into your eye, you’re ok.
If cleaning the toilet is the most favorite job, then sorting the clean socks and underwear is the least favorite job. I try to pawn it off on the boys entirely, but the results of that are sketchy. Usually the boys end up fighting in the middle of a big pile of socks and underwear and everyone’s miserable by the end of the day.
Today I tried a different approach. I had a laundry basket stuffed with socks, underwear, dishtowels and hand towels. No, I don’t wash the dishtowels with the underwear. This was two separate loads of laundry crammed into one basket.
We each had jobs. Boy7’s job was to stuff the boy socks in their drawer and fold the dishtowels. Boy9’s job was to stuff the boy underwear in their drawer and fold the bathroom towels. My job was to fold the grown up socks and underwear.
My other job was to sort through the laundry basket and toss each item of clothing into its own pile.
This meant I got to hurl the socks at Boy7 and the underwear at Boy9. They loved it. They thought it was the best thing since fishsticks, and folded the towels in record time.
You have to be sneaky to be a parent sometimes.
Later in the day I heard Darling Husband call out, “Boy7! Noooo!” Crash…tinkle, tinkle, tinkle.
Speaking of broken light bulbs, how are you supposed to clean up those new-fangled light bulbs with the mercury in them? It reminds me of the time soon after 9/11 when there were all those anthrax scares. One of my coworkers, Mildred (name changed to protect the silly) saw some white powder by the sink at work one day and called a Hazmat team to investigate. We got out of a half days’ worth of work and got to stand in the parking lot until the team arrived and tested the powder.
‘Course, poor Mildred had already been exposed, so she had to stay inside. I remember her sitting forlornly swiveling on a chair waaaay on the other side of the atrium while we filed out of the building. There she was in her regular clothes while the hazmat team bustled in past her, puffed up with their clean air and rubber suits. We couldn’t help but think, “Too late for you, Mildred!” while she sat there breathing in the anthrax air.
Course, they only evacuated the first and second floor, and not the third floor where Darling Husband worked. Yes, we worked for the same company. While the people who worked on the first and second floor were in the parking lot, Darling Husband stood at the floor to ceiling window on the 3rd floor clutching his throat and falling to the floor for our entertainment. Yes, Darling Husband was the class clown in school.
That was also the day we learned that another coworker, Morty (name changed as well) was afraid of bees. A bee was on the parking lot and kept flying near Morty which made him shriek like a little girl and dance about. Grown men running around in parking lots, shrieking over bees is hugely entertaining.
What a great day at work.
And the powder was just some sort of baby powder that an overly enthusiastic woman sprinkled all over herself in the bathroom.